Eighty-one riders ill of this epidemic? Despair and fear welled through Moreta. Riders ill? Her mind reeled. It was Fall! All the dragonriders were needed. Fort Weyr was down thirty in strength from the last Fall, and thirty-three from this one. It would be a full Turn before Dilenth flew. Why this? Only eight Turns remained in this Pass and then the riders would be free of the devastation that Thread wrought on dragons, themselves, and Pern. Moreta shook her head in an effort to clear her thinking. She ought to have paid more heed to Sh'gall's agitated report of illness instead of discounting the truth because it was unpalatable. She knew that Master Capiam was not in the habit of issuing arbitrary orders. But riders were healthy, fit, less susceptible to minor ailments. Why should they, in their splendid isolation, pursuing their historic occupation, be vulnerable to an infection rampant in crowded holds, halls, and among beasts?

Yet, her rational self said, the damage was already spreading by the time Sh'gall brought her the news. Even she had already innocently compounded her involvement by showing off her sensitivity to impress Alessan. How could anyone at Ruatha Gather have realized the danger in approaching that dying runnerbeast? Why, when Talpan had correlated illness to the journeyings of that caged beast, she and Alessan had probably been watching the races.

You are not at fault, the tender, loving voice of Orlith said. You did no harm to that runnerbeast. You had the right to enjoy the Gather.

"Is there anything we should do about the other Weyrs, Moreta?" Nesso asked. She had stopped weeping but she still twisted and washed her hands in an indecisive way that annoyed Moreta almost as much.

"Has Sh'gall returned?"

"He was here and went off, looking for Leri. He was angry."

Orlith?

They are busy but unharmed.

"Nesso, did you tell him about the drum messages?"

Nesso cast a desperate look at Moreta and shook her head. "He wasn't on the ground long enough-really, Moreta."

"I see." And Moreta did. Nesso could never have brought herself to inform the Weyrleader of such fateful tidings had there been worlds of time. Moreta would have to present the matters to Sh'gall soon enough, a conversation that would cause more acrimony on a day when both had more problems than hours. "How is Sorth?"

"Well, now, he's going to be fine," Nesso said with considerably more enthusiasm for that topic. "He's just over here. I thought you might like to check over my work."

The westering sun glinted off the Tooth Crag above Fort Weyr and the glare hurt Moreta's tired eyes as she looked in the direction Nesso pointed. The repair of Dilenth's wing had taken far longer than she had realized.

There is still sun on your ledge, Orlith. You should enjoy it. Get the cold of between and Fall out of your hide.

You are as tired. When do you rest?

When I have finished what must be done, Moreta said, but her dragon's concern was comforting. Moreta scrubbed at her fingertips, which had become insensitive where numbweed had seeped through the oil. She rinsed her hands in redwort and dried them well in the cloth Nesso offered.

A blue dragon wailed plaintively from his ledge, and Moreta looked up, worried.

"His rider only has a broken shoulder," Nesso said with a sniff. "Tom harness."

Moreta remembered another blue rider. Orlith, that blue weyrling– has he returned from the ridge?

Yes, there was no Thread. He reported to the Weyrlingmaster. He wants to have a word with you about putting a very young rider at risk.

The lad would have been in more risk continuing his antics, and I'll have words with the Weyrlingmaster on another score. "Let's see Sorth," she said aloud to Nesso.

"He's an old dragon. I don't think he'll heal well." Nesso babbled out of a nervous desire to regain favor in Moreta's eyes, for she didn't know that much about dragon injuries and far too much about how she thought the Weyr should be managed.

Moreta had also come to the conclusion at some point in the last few moments that she would have ordered someone to convey Lord Tolocamp had she been in the Weyr when the message arrived, despite any protest Sh'gall might have raised about breaking quarantine. Fort Hold would need Tolocamp more than Ruatha needed an unwilling guest. She wondered fleetingly if any were sick at Ruatha. If so, how had Alessan permitted Tolocamp to break quarantine?

Sorth had taken a gout of tangled Thread right on the forward wingfinger, severing the bone just past the knuckle. L'rayl was full of praise for Declan's assistance, belatedly including Nesso in his recital while she glared at him. They had done a good job of splinting the bone, Moreta noted professionally, tying reeds into position on wellnumbed flesh.

"Nasty enough," Moreta commented as Sorth gingerly lowered the injured wing for her scrutiny.

"A fraction closer to the knuckle and Sorth might have lost tip mobility," L'rayl said with laudable detachment. The man had a habit of clenching his teeth after he spoke, as if chopping off his words before they could offend anyone.

"A soak in the lake tomorrow will reduce the swelling once ichor has coated the wound," Moreta said, stroking the old brown's shoulder.

"Sorth says," L'rayl answered after a pause, "that floating would feel very good. The wing would be supported by the water and not ache so much." L'rayl was then caught between a grin and a grimace for his dragon's courage and, to cover his embarrassment, he turned and roughly scratched Sorth's greening muzzle.

"How many riders were injured?" she asked Nesso as they turned toward the infirmary. With eighty-one sick of the plague, they might have to send substitutes.

"More than there should be," Nesso replied, having recovered her critical tongue.

Nesso hovered while Moreta made her expected brief appearance in the infirmary. Most of the injured riders were groggy with fellis juice or asleep, so she didn't have to linger. She also seemed unable to extricate herself from Nesso's company.

"Moreta, what you need right now is a good serving of my fine stew."

Moreta was not hungry. She knew she ought to eat but she wanted to await the return of Sh'gall and Leri. In a brief flurry of malice, Moreta struck across the Bowl to the Lower Cavern in a long stride that forced Nesso to jog to keep up. Annoyed with herself, Moreta silently put up with Nesso's fussing to make sure that the cook served Moreta a huge plate. Nesso obsequiously cut bread and heaped slices on Moreta's plate before making a show of seating the Weyrwoman. Fortunately, before the last of Moreta's waning penitence was exhausted, one of the fosterlings came running up to say that Tellani needed Nesso "right now."

"Giving birth, no doubt. She started labor at the beginning of Fall." Nesso raised her eyes and hands ceilingward in resignation. "We'll probably never know who the father was for Tellani doesn't know."

"Babe or child, we'll have some trace to go by. Wish Tellani well for me."

Privately Moreta blessed Tellani for her timing; she would have respite from the Headwoman, and a birth after Fall was regarded as propitious. The Weyr needed a good dollop of luck. A boy, even of uncertain parentage, would please the dragonriders. She'd have a stern talk with Tellani about keeping track of her lovers-surely a simple enough task even for so loving a woman as Tellani. The Weyr had to be cautious about consanguinity. It might just be the wiser course to foster Tellani's children to other Weyrs.

It was easier to think of an imminent birth than tax her tired mind with imponderables such as sick riders in three Weyrs, a Masterhealer who was not signing outgoing messages, the disciplining of a rider and a harper who disobeyed their Weyrleader, a wing-torn dragon who would be weyrbound for months, and a sick healer who might be dying.